Quarantine Zone
by BlueSky509
Summary: It's a funny thing, becoming a soldier. One minute you're just a dumb kid, and the next...someone hands you a gun and you don't have a choice anymore. OCxOC
1. Smuggler's Kid

The final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day. Jason hurried out the side door of the Newport Military Boarding School, dashing past neighbours lounging on their front stoops, idly whittling away their mundane existence with stale cigarettes and complaints about how little reprieve the thin trees along the street provided from the mid-September sun. Kids in the park on his left were tossing footballs and Frisbees, others preoccupied with trash-talking one another as they played a game of baseball. Jason felt a prick of jealousy as he passed them; _their _mothers didn't order them to come home straight after school. Glancing up, Jason eyed the soldiers lazily patrolling the rooftops of the apartment buildings, wiping the sweat from beneath their helmets as they cradled rifles against their flak jackets, deceptively alert.

Jason jogged up the front steps of his Montgomery Street apartment building, its burgundy brick walls as dull and weather-worn as ever. Impatiently fishing for his keys in his pocket, he entered the lobby. Thick, gray dust motes floated up from the rotting floorboards, disturbed by the draft from the door. Jason sneezed as he hung a left inside, kicking a piece of plaster out of his way as he shuffled down the narrow hallway, the wood squeaking under his combat boots.

He could hear his mother's yelling before he even put his key into the lock. _Wonder what set Mom off this time…_Jason sighed, taking a moment to brace himself as he slipped inside the flat.

"This is the second time this month they've cut you off, Shane! What the hell's goin' on?" Jason's mother screeched, her brunette hair falling out of her messy bun as she gestured wildly at her husband.

Shane crossed his thick arms, his square jaw set in an angry frown. "They're cuttin' lots of people off, Julia. Cobras are startin' to take notice, they've hanged three smugglers already! Do I have to mention they _disembowelled _them?It's gettin' risky, and the boss don't like risks!" he took a deep breath to compose himself, rubbing the bald patch on his head. "It's only temporary, I'll have another job as soon as things cool down again."

"It's _only_ temporary? Last time you were cut off, we starved for two weeks!" Julia shouted, her hazel eyes blazing with fury. "We can't live on two ration cards a day, I can't support this family by myself!"

"You ain't supportin' this family by yourself, Jason's working hard, too. Right, boy?" Shane raised a graying brown eyebrow at his son, who had drifted, unnoticed, into the kitchen.

"Yessir," Jason meekly replied, giving an inaudible sigh as he pulled the last bowl of pigeon stew from the sparsely-stocked fridge. He grabbed a bent spoon from the dishrack, disappearing into his bedroom.

Julia gave her husband a glare, imitating his stance by crossing her thin arms. "He shouldn't be workin', he should be actin' like a kid. Cleanin' horse shit for soldiers, guardin' the smugglers' tunnel to Wall Market for you and your cohorts, it ain't right! He should be playin' football with his friends in the park, or datin' a girl, for Christ's sake!"

"It's either let him act like a kid or starve, honey. Take your pick," Shane shrugged, his Jersey drawl dripping with sarcasm.

Julia huffed, glancing at the oven clock. She swore, making a beeline for the door. "If you don't get another goddamn job, we'll starve anyway! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go earn food for this family!" she snapped in reply, slamming the apartment door behind her. The pots hanging above the stove rattled with the disturbance, as though grumbling irritably after her.

Shane sat heavily in the rickety wooden chair at the kitchen table, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose. He picked his head up at the sound of gently creaking hinges, and Jason reappeared with the bowl of cold pigeon stew as he sat down opposite his father. His expression was lined with the same anxiety.

Shane gave him a strained smile, "Don't worry, we won't starve. I've got some other contacts who might give me some work."

"That's what you said last time…" Jason mumbled between spoonfuls of thin stew.

Shane ruffled his son's hair, and he swatted his hand away with a tiny smirk. "I'll make it work, I know I will. How was school today?" he asked in an effort to change the depressing subject.

Jason lifted a shoulder, casting his gaze downward. "Riley moved into one of the dorm rooms today, and Chloe and me—"

"Chloe an' _I_," his father pointedly corrected.

Jason fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Chloe and _I_ helped her unpack. She said she had some big fight with her dad and he told her to pack up and leave. So she went to the office today and signed for a room."

"Well, Dale ain't exactly father of the year, him strugglin' with his drinkin' an' all. It's probably better for Riley if she stays at school…" Shane sighed, rubbing a hand down his tired face.

"Riley doesn't have a roommate, but she don't mind. Chloe was bouncin' off the walls, she was so excited she an' Riley were neighbours," Jason smirked at the memory.

Shane pushed his chair back, the scraping sound almost unfamiliar in the quiet flat without Julia's yelling to drown it out. He chuckled, "Sounds like Chloe, she never sits still!" He clapped a hand on his son's thin shoulder as he ambled down the hall to the bathroom.

Jason disappeared into his room again. He pulled out ratty jeans and a ripped black t-shirt from his dresser, and peeled off his sticky uniform. He gladly deposited it on the back of his desk chair by the window. He scrunched his brow as he registered a quiet rustling, and he peered out his window to find a folded piece of paper stuck into the frame on the outside.

Pushing the bottom half of the window up, Jason grabbed the piece of paper and smoothed it out on his desk, pulling the cord on his lamp. The lightbulb blinked to life, flickered some more, and then died completely. Jason grumbled a few obscenities, squinting at the hastily scrawled message.

_Pickup: Mozart, Kodiaks, District 3 Maxwell Auto, 10 p.m. Drop-off: Picasso, Eagles, District 4 North Baptist._

Jason sighed, pocketing the paper as he set his alarm clock for 9:25 p.m., estimating it shouldn't take more than that to get to District 3 if everything went smoothly. He dug around in his backpack for his math binder. _Might as well do my homework if I'm not getting any sleep tonight…_he groaned internally at the prospect of doing another run. _At least Cobras only pay attention to gangs and smugglers, not to gang messengers. Hopefully. _

(Line Break)

A sharp, monotone beep sounded in Jason's ear. His eyes snapped open, locking on the alarm clock on his desk, which dutifully read 9:25 p.m. in bright red. He switched the alarm off, peeling a sheet of math equations from his cheek. Jason sat still and listened for a moment for any sounds that suggested his parents were still in the kitchen. Satisfied as complete silence met his ears, he pulled on his sneakers, stuck his flashlight and switchblade into his back pocket, and tugged on his navy windbreaker. He crawled silently out of his window, and jogged off into the dark streets of the Newport QZ. The cool night air buffeted his skin, a refreshing change from the day's heat.

Jason tensed at every sound as he darted from alley to alley. Lights from the soldiers' scopes swept across the broken streets and glinted off dusty windows, spotlights of bright, white death from the rooftops above. It was long after curfew, and soldiers had permission to shoot anyone who wasn't military after 6 p.m.

Suddenly headlights blazed to life somewhere down the road and the engine of a military truck roared to life. Sucking in a breath, Jason ducked behind a building's corner, pressing himself as close to the rough brick as he could. A second later, the truck rumbled past, driver oblivious to his presence. The vibrations rattled up Jason's spine, making his teeth clack together. He only moved once the street was quiet again.

Unluckily for him, his family lived in District 2, but he was supposed to pick something up from a man under the name of Mozart in District 3. Jason crouched low as he came up to the barbed wire fence separating the two. He always hated this part. Along the fence he was in the open; there was nowhere to hide if soldiers spotted him.

Jason searched for his usual weak points in the fence bordering District 3, his paranoia at its peak as he constantly glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers guarding Checkpoint Columbus down the street. It was technically called Checkpoint Beta, but since there were at least four checkpoints for each district, people just nicknamed them for the streets they were on. This one happened to be on Christopher Columbus Drive.

Voices suddenly cut through the darkness and a group of bodies rounded the corner of a building down the street. Jason swore, suddenly holding his breath as he watched light beams sweep across the hoods of dilapidated cars. A radio squawked, barking directions. A patrol.

Feeling frantically in the dark, Jason's fingers met a portion of the chain-link where the fence gave way. He wrenched it up, scrambling forward on his stomach, digging the tips of his boots into the ground behind him. By the time the beams of light swept across the weak spot in the fence, the only evidence of his crossing were a few stray scuff marks on the ground.

As Jason jogged along the sidewalk in relative safety, his mind wandered back to the names on his note. He understood the requirement for code names, but he always wondered why gang members and smugglers never picked something more formidable.

_If I were a gang member, I'd choose something really scary, like Cobra Crusher or the Silent Killer. Not something wussy like a dead artist's or musician's name, _Jason snorted as he flattened himself against a wall, waiting for a sniper's scope light to shift farther off.

Jason continued musing to himself about code names as he picked his way through trash-lined alleys, dodging patrols and snipers until he came to an abandoned garage in a narrow backstreet. He glanced over both shoulders before ducking under an opening under one garage door.

Jason clicked his flashlight on, watching a man detach himself from the door of a beat-up car.

The man flung a hand up, the Kodiaks' bear insignia on his shoulder gleaming as he snapped in a raspy baritone, "Turn that off!" Once Jason obliged, Mozart dug around inside his tattered brown trench coat and handed Jason a wad of envelopes. "I won't wait 'round next time you're late," he grumbled, and then disappeared into the darkness as he departed the garage.

Jason sat down on top of an overturned milk crate, reviewing his options for the best route to get to North Baptist, which he vaguely remembered was a church. He had passed by the place on previous runs.

_I can go up Jersey Avenue…No, stupid, that'd be going along the fence! Coles Street? Yeah, that sounds good. That's tent city territory, soldiers don't go there, _he decided, and ducked under the garage door again.

Maybe there weren't soldiers, but that didn't make it any less dangerous. Whoever wasn't lucky enough to get a room in one of the cramped apartment buildings set up poor excuses for tents in the streets. The Newport Quarantine Zone had run out of room long ago, and District 3 was notorious for its tent cities. The sprawling, sordid, impoverished slums crowded any place soldiers didn't bother patrolling.

Coles Street was home to once such tent city. Green, blue, and brown sagging tarps hung from trees like Spanish moss along the splitting sidewalks, clung like hole-ridden cobwebs to porch railings, flapping feebly in the night breeze, and slumped between dilapidated cars squatting on decayed tires. Miserable graffiti and gang slogans adorned every vertical concrete surface, and rust dripped from iron fire escapes clinging to the four and five-storey apartment buildings looming over the squalor.

The denizens of Newport stared dolefully out at Jason from under their tarps, their hollow eyes listless with a hint of feral hunger. Men and women in threadbare jackets glanced up with blank expressions from drum fires dotting the streets like torches, the flames throwing chaotic, dancing shadows across the brick walls of alleys. The odd coughing fit and shrieking cry of an unhappy baby echoed across the quiet street.

The stench of human waste and rotting garbage filled Jason's nose, and he tasted something foul and unpleasant at the back of his throat. He turned the collar of his windbreaker up, hunching his shoulders as he tried to breathe through his mouth.

Suddenly Jason found himself hurled onto the splintering asphalt. By the time he realized what was going on, his attacker had pinned his arm and straddled his back to keep him from escaping. The letters were crushed underneath Jason's chest, along with his lungs. He tried desperately to struggle free as another pair of hands patted him down, grimy fingers searching his pockets.

The disgusting, greasy fetor rolling off both men hit Jason full-on, and he would have gagged if his chest wasn't being painfully pressed into the asphalt.

"Lemme go, I don't have nothin'!" Jason shouted as he wriggled in vain to escape. The man sitting on his back punched him twice across his temple, and Jason let out a tiny whimper as stars danced across his vision.

Two deep chuckles sounded from above him, and Jason felt those grimy fingers remove his switchblade from his back pocket. All of a sudden the weight on his back was gone and Jason rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows as he searched wildly for his attackers. But the only faces that looked back at him were dull and unsympathetic, half staring at him as if he should have known better, half looking like they wished they had the balls to mug him themselves.

Not wanting to temp the latter half, Jason sprinted all the way down to Fourth Street. He crawled under another split in the fence on Jersey Avenue, heart pounding and hands shaking as he glanced frenziedly about for more threats. Only the wind sighing through the dark alleys met his ears. Deciding he was safe for the time being, Jason slowed to a walk.

The red brick bell tower of the North Baptist Church loomed above him, one half a silvery blue from the moonlight. Jason slipped inside an ornate wooden door, bringing out the pack of letters from his front pocket. The moonlight filtering through the stained glass windows cast ripples of red, green, and blue like water across the decaying wood floor. Like his apartment building's lobby, the disturbance in the stale air sent dust motes afloat like rainbow-coloured fireflies in the pale light.

Another man in a trench coat, who Jason presumed to be Picasso, sat in one of the rotted wooden pews that neatly filled the low-ceilinged church. Jason handed the letters to him, and in exchange, he placed a thin wad of orange ration cards in his hand.

Jason quickly counted the cards. "Just two? I got mugged by these two assholes on my way here, you know," he informed Picasso.

"My orders were to give you two. That's plenty for a messenger," the man replied gruffly, picking at a loose thread sticking out from the embroidered eagle on his shoulder.

"They stole my switchblade, I want compensation," Jason pressed.

Picasso smirked, tugging on his short, black beard. "Just 'cause your father's a smuggler don't mean you can call the shots, pipsqueak. Be happy you're even gettin' cards at all," he grunted with finality.

Jason balled his fists, fuming as he turned and strode up one of the aisles. Crumbled plaster that had fallen from the ceiling crunched underneath his boots. He glanced up, slowing to a halt to take in the stained glass windows. Jason felt his frustration begin to ebb away as he stared at a glass mosaic above the ornate door. It was of a shepherd, a curved cane in one hand, his expression gentle and generous as he gazed lovingly at the fluffy, white lamb at his feet.

The window was cracked and broken in places, robbing the shepherd of part of his sandal and splintering a spider web of cracks through the lamb's woolly coat, but the image was still as breathtaking as Jason was sure it was before the outbreak.

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Picasso asked, his voice echoing softly in the silent church as he watched Jason gaze at the stained glass window.

"Yeah…" Jason breathed. There was a strange peacefulness that pervaded the church, like all the troubles of the outside world were kept at bay outside its walls.

_It's hard to believe that people built places like this just to worship some person in the sky…It's more like a place royalty would live in, _Jason mused as he stopped at a pew, brushing the cracked, frayed binding of a book lying on the seat.

"Did people really come here to—" Jason began, but stopped short as he heard a chocked gargle sound from behind him.

Jason's eyes went wide as he slowly turned, making out a black-clad figure looming over Picasso. He extracted a silver knife from his neck, and pocketed the letters inside his long, black coat before the blood gushing from the wound could stain them.

The numbing tendrils of pure fear curled around Jason like icy fingers, freezing him to the spot as the figure threw a sidelong glance at him, silhouetted against the moonlight. Like a black hole, the figure seemed to suck up all the colour from the stained glass windows as he turned to face Jason, head tilted curiously to one side. Jason made out the distinctive silver, intertwined pair of snakes on the beak of the figure's hood. His heart almost stopped.

_Cobra._

Picasso slumped forward, collapsing in an unmoving heap between the pews as blood pooled around the Cobra's tall, black boots. Like liquid shadow, the assassin lithely advanced towards Jason, boots barely making a sound as his sword's dragon-shaped hand guard clinked against his belt buckle. The quiet sound brought more dread to Jason than any death knell the bell in the church's tower could make.

Jason's mind screamed at him to run, but the fear steadfastly anchored him to the floorboards. His heart pounded in his ears. His arms were lead, his legs like ice. Slowly, the Cobra leaned in, pressing a spidery, pale finger to his thin lips. Jason didn't dare breathe.

"Shh…don't tell," the assassin whispered in a young man's tenor, and Jason's eyes flicked to his face long enough to notice that the brown peach fuzz on his upper lip didn't match the blond bangs poking out from under his hood.

The Cobra turned around, leaving bloody boot prints on the church's rotting floor as he strode unfazed through Picasso's pool of blood as if it were water. Jason stared after him, wondering why he hadn't been disembowelled like his father's colleagues, or hung from the rafters.

The ice encasing Jason cracked when the Cobra suddenly erupted in a violent coughing fit, shattering the peaceful silence of the church as he doubled over. It struck something inside Jason, like a stark reminder that underneath all that brutality, this Cobra was still human. Free from the ice for a moment, Jason dared to breathe again.

Something most humans shared was sympathy for each other, but voicing his concern for an assassin who could easily change his mind about killing him seemed alien to Jason. The disquieting fit was over in less than a minute, and the assassin melted back into the shadows of the dark street. The clopping of horse hooves receded down the road, and the quiet inside the church returned.

Jason stood shivering in the middle of the aisle, wondering for a moment if the deity this church had been dedicated to somehow saved him from Picasso's fate. The fear gradually receded, and Jason became aware of an unfamiliar weight in his jacket pocket. He stiffly reached into it, his brows drawing together as he pulled out his switchblade, along with a pack of five more ration cards.


	2. Bully in the Alley

"Jason…Jason!" Riley waved her hand in front of Jason's face. He started, sitting bolt upright on the cafeteria table bench. The babble of dinnertime conversation around him came rushing back into his ears, leaving them waterlogged for a few seconds.

"What? What is it?" Jason asked, his eyes darting to his friends' faces around him. Hidden worry was present in their sympathetic eyes, like they were concerned for him, but had given up trying to bring it up. As Jason's initial panic fizzled out, he rubbed a hand down his face, covering his mouth as he gave a wide yawn.

"Are you ever gonna tell us what's wrong?" His friend Xavier drew his carrot-orange eyebrows together.

Jason cocked his head at him, taking a moment to process the question. Xavier's eyes rested on his forehead and he self-consciously touched the healing bruises on his temple, masking the movement by pushing his bangs back. "Nothing's wrong, I'm just a little tired," Jason said, giving another yawn.

"A little? You've been sleeping through history every day this week. You never explained those bruises on your face, either," Riley reminded him, and Xavier frowned and nodded in agreement. His other friend Chloe sighed and shook her head at him, her straw-blonde ponytail swishing with the movement.

Jason bit his lip, casting his gaze downward at the watery mashed potatoes and wrinkled green beans that constituted his dinner. A faint, sweet odor, the same that came from moldy bread, wafted up with the steam, like the food had been in the fridge a couple days too long.

Jason hadn't slept a wink in the week since his encounter with the Cobra in the church, and his paranoia had been through the roof ever since. He half-expected something to jump out from the shadows and strangle him when he walked home after school. On top of that, his father was still laying low because the Cobras were still stringing up smugglers, and it was too dangerous to poke his head out. That meant staying at school later to eat dinner, which meant walking home when it was darker.

Jason felt someone shake his shoulder, and he picked his head up, meeting Chloe's anxious eyes on his right. "Not to mention you're zoning out every two minutes. Can't you tell us what's going on?" Chloe pleaded, and Jason felt a twinge of guilt for making her worry.

_It's safer if you don't know, _Jason wanted to say to her, but he couldn't. The less they knew, the less danger they would be in.

Jason shook his head, and Chloe's frown deepened. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and then hesitated before removing her hand, like she felt something she shouldn't have under his skin. Jason wouldn't lie if he said he didn't notice his shoulder blades stuck out a little more when he looked at himself in the mirror. Though the food at school was all he had, the anxiety and stress tying reef knots his gut left little room for anything else.

Jason caught Riley's eye from across the table, and his shoulders hunched in response to her intense expression. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling more guilt bubble up in his stomach. She was using her favourite tactic to make him crack and confess again, boring holes into him with her eyes until he caved. So far it hadn't worked, but he didn't know how much more of it he could take. Jason focused on his food again, but every time he glanced up Riley was still staring at him, silently trying to get him to spill his secrets.

After dinner Jason, Chloe, and Riley headed to Chloe's dorm room so Jason could pick up his things. Jason trailed a few steps behind his friends, who were covertly whispering to each other. The exhaustion fogging his brain made him incapable of processing his own thoughts, let alone other people's words, and he didn't bother fighting it. Instead he focused his attention on the light drizzle of rain against the bay windows on his right.

Once in Chloe's room, Jason gathered his military uniform where he hung it in her closet to dry off the rain after morning drills, stuffing it in his backpack. He hadn't been so scatterbrained this morning as to forget a change of clothes, but he had forgotten his textbooks for history and math. The rain slapped against the window in sheets now, the dark, angry clouds above like giant bombers releasing their arsenal of wet bullets. A dull, ashen light pervaded the room, dappling the floor, the walls, and the furniture with fifty shades of gray.

As Jason stuffed the textbooks he didn't forget into his backpack, he picked his head up as Riley materialized in Chloe's doorway, silent like the silvery mist hovering above the wet asphalt of the streets below. Her shoulder-length dark blonde hair could pass for brunet in the minimal light, but her hazel eyes seemed brighter, as though embers simmered behind them.

"Hey, Riley," Chloe chirped happily, but Jason detected a hint of false enthusiasm in her voice. Riley didn't return the smile as she riveted her gaze on Jason, her glare the same one she used in the cafeteria. Chloe's grin faltered as Riley crossed her arms, the air between her and Jason becoming fraught with something that made Chloe shrink back.

"We need to talk," Riley finally said, her voice quiet, but with a razor-sharp edge.

Jason's eyes flicked to Chloe for help, but she avoided his gaze, pink tinging her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if trying to make herself look smaller. She reeked of guilt, and it left a foul taste in Jason's mouth.

_So this is what they were whispering about, _Jason mentally growled. "You asked her to lecture me again, didn't you?" he snapped at Chloe, the question more an accusation. Chloe flinched, minutely nodding.

If there was one thing that was fiercer about Riley than her glares, it was her lectures. They were more like interrogations, and Jason had borne the brunt of most of them during the past week. It was more an ordeal now than a help.

Jason shot Chloe a look of utmost betrayal as he followed Riley to her room next door, shutting the door behind him. Riley drifted over to the window, resting her elbows on the sill as she let out a long breath, fogging the glass as she watched the rivulets of rain race each other down its grimy surface. The usual calm before the storm. Jason watched her warily as he sat on her vacant bed, waiting for her to start snapping at him. For a moment, the only sound in the entire world seemed to be the splash of the rain on the window.

Riley pinched the bridge of her ski slope nose, letting out a soft sigh, and turned away from the window to face Jason. The air around Riley seemed to electrify, like before a lightning bolt hit. Jason felt tension creeping up his shoulders, an automatic response to the onslaught he knew was coming.

"What's going on, Jason?" Riley asked quietly, her voice tired, a record player with its stylus about to crack. Jason sat still, momentarily surprised at the absence of anger in her voice. He hated not being able to tell his friends about his problems, but it was for their own safety. And his, if they ever blabbed to his parents and unleashed their wrath, especially his mother's. He shivered at the prospect.

The tension in Jason's shoulders steadily ebbed, now that he realized Riley wouldn't blow up in his face. He sensed a different undercurrent to her demeanor now; instead of worry and anger bubbling under the surface, all he could detect was exhaustion and sadness.

"I've told you a million times, nothing is wrong," Jason grumbled, tired of sounding like an overused record player, too.

Riley bristled, and he sensed another lecture about to burst from her mouth. "That's bull, and you know it! Normal people can keep themselves awake during the day. You can't! Normal people don't constantly jump at the tiniest sound, like they're waiting for something to attack them. Normal people don't—" she ranted, but suddenly Jason was on his feet, crossing the room in a single, long stride.

"Maybe I'm not normal? Did that ever cross your mind?" Jason snarled at her. He towered over Riley as all his frustration, stress, and anxiety roiled within him like the clouds in the sky. The turbulent emotions clenched his stomach to the point where he felt nauseous, the sour bitterness on his tongue like milk left out of the fridge for too long.

"I'm fed up with you, Chloe, and everyone else constantly asking after me, day in and day out! I can't even think because someone's always asking me what's wrong! Why can't you and everyone else just leave me the fuck alone?" Jason scathingly yelled at her, advancing on her. With every step he took, Riley stepped back. Fury licked at his insides, and he couldn't control his shaking hands.

Jason heard Riley give a small gasp as her back brushed the wall. He only had enough time to register her eyes go wide with fear before her fist connected with his jaw, sending him reeling into the desk. Jason's midsection hit the wooden edge first before the rest of him collapsed on its wide surface, leaving him gasping for air himself. Winded, he rubbed his aching jaw as he used the desk chair for support, sucking in air and coughing it out.

"Sorry…I-I'm sorry…" Riley shook like a leaf in the wind, massaging her bruised knuckles. "I—I thought you were my drunk dad there for a second…"

Jason coughed, getting his breathing under control. The shock of the impact snapped him back to reality. He mentally kicked himself. Riley had enough on her plate with her dad's drunken rages, she didn't need him taking his anxiety out on her, too. "No…I'm the one who should be sorry. You don't need to deal with my shit, too," he croaked, easing himself away from the chair. Pain shot down his torso as he straightened, and he suppressed a wince.

"If I didn't help you deal with your shit, what kind of a friend would I be?" Riley planted a hand on her hip.

Jason suddenly let out an unpermitted chuckle, and Riley looked at him like he had insulted her. "What's so funny?" she asked, her regular attitude colouring her tone again.

"I'm not laughing at you, it's just…damn, you punch hard!" Jason smirked as he guided Riley over to the bed, slinging an arm around her narrow shoulders as she tried to hide a giggle.

"You know my dad's a brawler down at the fighting pits." Riley nonchalantly lifted a shoulder as they sat side-by-side on the mattress. Jason nodded; it was the only notable thing about Mr. Marshall besides his drinking. He never understood how Riley's father could afford all his booze, unless he cheated or bribed his way to winning.

A quiet settled between them, but this time it was different than their other companionable silences. This one was fraught with an unfamiliar tension, one that made Jason's muscles taught and his throat inexplicably dry. He cleared his throat, resting his elbows against the inside of his knees. The urge to tell Riley what was going on weighed like a slab of concrete on his shoulders, and his lungs ached as if he was being pressed into the pavement again. The drumming of the rain filled the silence, impatient fingers tapping the window pane, and his newest bruise throbbed in time with his quick heartbeat.

"My parents can't afford to put food on the table. My dad's out of work and my mom doesn't earn enough ration cards for all three of us," Jason suddenly confessed, breaking the too-long silence between them. As he sighed his shoulders slumped, finally relieved of their heavy burden.

"Jason…" Riley placed a comforting hand on his back, "why didn't you tell anyone? Is that why you're staying later at school?"

The edge of Jason's lips twitched upward in a half-hearted smile. "Yeah, that and I absolutely love poring over my math textbook," he drawled, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I can't stomach the food here without throwing it up later," he dropped his hand, voice fading to a mumble.

"Yes, it does matter," Riley protested. "Everyone's noticing how pale you look. I mean, I know you're skinny, but now you're really starting to look like a twig," she giggled as Jason playfully ribbed her.

He rolled his eyes, "Thanks, Riley."

Riley flashed him a small smile, but it quickly faded. "That doesn't explain your sleep deprivation, though," she pointed out.

Jason chewed his lip, hunching his shoulders as he studied his bitten-down nails. He kept silent, even with Riley adopting her signature piercing gaze again. On top of his semi-starvation, he had gone out on runs for gangs every night that past week. It seemed news of Picasso's fate had spread quickly through Newport's underground, and the gangs relied on messengers as their primary form of communication. Jason hadn't run into the blond-haired Cobra again, but that never stopped him from glancing twice over his shoulder and avoiding shadowy alleys when he could.

"I can't," Jason finally answered, after lots of fidgeting and avoiding Riley's eyes.

"You…can't? Why not?" Riley tilted her head, more concerned than intimidating now.

Jason shook his head, only inciting further concern and confusion from his friend. "I just…can't tell you, okay?" he gave her a pleading look, begging her not to ask any more questions.

Riley's hand fell away from his back, and the temporary cold spot it left behind made him wonder just how long she had kept it there. Riley slowly nodded, drawing her eyebrows together as she replied in a soft, sombre voice, "Okay."

Jason gave her a tired smile, rising to his feet as he shuffled back to Chloe's room to finish packing his things.

(Line Break)

The rain splattered against Jason's skin and stung his eyes as he kept to the shadows of doorways and alleys, zipping his thin, navy windbreaker higher up his neck. The rain mercilessly chilled him to the bone, sapping away what little strength he reserved for nightly runs. Jason thanked his bosses for giving him a relatively easier job tonight: a pick-up at an old salon on Varick and Wayne, and then lobbing whatever it was over the fence for the waiting costumer on the other side of Christopher Columbus. His bosses never told him what he would be picking up, not that he cared.

Jason kept shooting glances over his shoulder, the sopping wet hair on the back of his neck pricking at the tinny ringing of water pouring off the various levels of the corroded fire escapes and eavestroughs of Varick Street's apartment buildings. Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach, heightening his alertness all the more. He had gotten used to the feeling of tasting nothing but his own saliva on his tongue for hours on end.

Jason whipped around at the sound of something soft scraping asphalt, like the boot of someone breaking into a run. He froze, listening, but he didn't hear the noise again. Not wanting to hang around and find out if it belonged to friend or foe, Jason hastily resumed his half-jog towards his destination.

Avoiding a soldier's scope light by hunkering down in the shadow of someone's porch steps, Jason heard the scraping sound again, along with a familiar soprano voice's exclamation of "Ow!"

Jason turned, making out a figure attempting to free their jacket from where it was caught on a twisted piece of someone's wrought iron porch railing. "Riley?" Jason asked in disbelief, squinting to make out her face in the sheeting rain and darkness.

"Give me a hand, will you?" Riley urgently whispered back, eyeing the soldier's wandering scope light from the rooftop across the street.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Jason hissed, jerking Riley's gray raincoat free.

Riley pushed away the wet, dirty blonde strands of hair pasted to her face, flashing him a bright smile as they ducked out of sight of the white beam of death again. "I figured if you couldn't tell me what you were up to, you might as well show me," she whispered proudly, like tailing Jason in the middle of the night was some sort of achievement.

Well, maybe it was, if she managed to dodge soldiers _and_ still follow him without his knowing.

"Riley, go back to the dorm. _Now_," Jason ordered, pointedly tipping his head in the direction of the school.

"Not until you tell me what you're up to," Riley returned stubbornly.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to snap at her. _I don't have time for this, _he groaned. He met Riley's expectant eyes, which reflected the soldier's sweeping scope beam. They seemed to shimmer like amber gems in the dark, almost hypnotizing, and Jason found himself staring a moment too long.

Collecting himself, Jason exhaled heavily, a deep frown etching itself into his face. He couldn't hide anything from her now, not when she had followed him this far, not when her eyes studied the bulge of the packet hidden inside his coat. "Fine, I'm a gang messenger," Jason snapped. "There. Happy? Can you go home now?"

Riley's lips parted, about to reply, but she jerked around at the sudden sound of the fire escape across the street clanging as something large and heavy hit it. A second later, there was a splash and a dull thud, like a sack of sand toppling from the fire escape and smacking into the muddy pond formed by what looked like a former garden.

Only, Jason didn't remember sand bags ever possessing the ability to moan in pain.

The scope light snapped in the direction of the noise, rippling across the fire escape as its owner shouted in an authoritative baritone, "Who's there? By order of the Newport QZ military, show yourself!"

Whoever had fallen from the fire escape remained silent.

A crack ripped across the sky, interrupting the steady drum of the rain as the soldier fired a warning shot, making Jason and Riley jump. Sparks flew up from the fire escape with a sharp ping, but the bullet glanced harmlessly off and careened somewhere into the darkness. Jason and Riley retreated as far as humanly possible into the shadows of the porch steps, praying the rain and darkness would hide them.

Jason held his breath, his eyes riveted on the soldier, his muscles tensed in preparation to flee at any moment. Riley was pressed between him and the side of the porch, shivering with fear or cold or both. There wasn't a hair's breadth of space between them. Despite the tension and cold seizing every inch of Jason's body, Riley's warm breath on his neck made the hairs on his neck stand, as though they yearned to feel more than just her warm exhales.

The scope light winked out suddenly, evidently the soldier had flicked it off, and a second later, the groan and whine of metal echoed across the silent street as if the soldier were climbing down a metal ladder. The white beam reappeared a couple minutes later on ground level as the officer fixed his rifle on the alley again, disappearing between the two brick apartment buildings. The two-beat sloshing of mud and water came from the alley, and then the soldier's footsteps ceased.

"Well, well," Jason and Riley heard the soldier announce smugly, "looks like a fearsome Cobra came out of his pit!"

Judging from his tone, Jason presumed this particular Cobra wasn't very fearsome at all.

A sharp yelp of pain sounded from the alley as Jason heard the tell-tale thud of the butt of a rifle connecting with someone's ribs. "C'mon, Cobra, ain't you gonna slit my throat? Ain't you gonna run me through with that fancy sword, you pathetic piece of shit?" the soldier taunted, and Jason winced as the same gut-wrenching crack of rifle stock against bone echoed through the alley. It came again and again and again, sometimes a sharp crack, sometimes a dull thud, always answered by the anguished cries of the soldier's victim. Jason felt bile rise in his throat when the awful noises didn't stop for what felt like hours, and Riley covered her ears to keep the Cobra's excruciating, tortured cries of pain out.

After a few unbearable minutes the cries of agony from the Cobra faded to weak moans, then to whimpers begging for mercy, and then finally to silence. All the while the soldier hurled scathing slur after slur in tandem with his relentless strikes.

Finally the sounds of the beatings stopped, and the only thing Jason and Riley could hear was the soldier's laboured pants and the slosh of his boots in the mud. He reappeared a moment later, strutting through the muddy, empty flower bed that bordered the alley, chest proudly puffed out like a drenched, filthy, blood-splattered rooster. Jason let out the breath he had been holding once the soldier's scope light faded into nothing more than a dot of light far down the street.

"Oh my God…" Riley breathed, and she glanced at Jason with the same shock he was sure was written all over his face. She stood, hesitantly stepping towards the alley where the soldier had bludgeoned the Cobra, curious but cautious. Jason sharply tugged on her sleeve, silently urging her to keep moving towards their destination with a pointed glance down the dark street.

Riley bit her lip, torn between following Jason and her curiosity. "He might not be dead. We could help him," she said in an uncertain voice, like she wasn't quite sure why those words had come out of her mouth. Nobody in their right mind went anywhere near a Cobra, much less wanted to help one.

"Riley, are you insane?" Jason's eyes widened, incredulous. "He's a _Cobra_!" he hissed, as if that singular name settled the matter. "We gotta get moving before more of them show up and gut us, come on."

Riley stood where she was, gazing at the alley with conflicted eyes.

"This isn't time to play humanitarian, Riley, it's not—"

A weak wheeze and a string of coughs from the alley interrupted Jason. Riley wrenched her wrist out of his grip, darting into the muddy, dark backyard before he could stop her.


	3. Human(e)

Jason caught hold of Riley's wrist again as she skittered to a stop just inside the alley, the muddy water splashing like ice water up his pant legs. The adrenaline was still racing through his veins, even more so now that they were within striking distance of a Cobra. Jason could smell just a hint of something foul and putrid pricking his nostrils, like overripe fruit starting to rot. He wasn't sure if it was coming from the Cobra or the general filth of the backyard, but either way it wasn't pleasant.

Glancing down, Jason felt a bit of sympathy despite the fear coursing through him. The Cobra was sprawled on his front, seemingly unconscious at his feet, half sunk in the mud. Blood trickled from his misshapen nose, and if Jason squinted, he could see bruises starting to blossom along his sharp cheekbones. But the external injuries wasn't what struck Jason the most. This Cobra looked young, probably a year or two older than him, at most.

A sudden realization came to mind that twisted Jason's stomach, and he tasted bile at the back of his throat again. _If I had to live on the street…could this have been me? _

His momentary lapse in attention gave Riley the opportunity to kneel beside the injured Cobra. Jason snapped back to reality, roughly pushing the thought from his mind. "Be careful," he warned, and Riley rolled her eyes at him. He drew his switchblade, just in case.

She cautiously reached a hand out, pushing on the Cobra's shoulder so he was lying on his back. He let out a feeble moan of pain, cracking an eye open. His breaths came in weak wheezes, interrupted by a string of coughs.

Riley and the assassin stared at each other for a long moment, both silent apart from the Cobra's laboured breathing. She shifted uncomfortably in her crouched position, eyes growing wider as though she felt the same fear spreading through her body, and a small part of Jason hoped she would change her mind, listen to that fear, and give up this stupid, dangerous humanitarian urge of hers.

"What're you waitin' for? Gonna watch me die 'fore you loot me?" the young assassin slurred in a weak tenor.

"No…umm…" Riley fidgeted, focusing her gaze on the Cobra's muddy sword. "We…" she glanced up at Jason, who minutely shook his head, and then corrected herself, "I…want to help."

The Cobra propped himself up onto his elbow with evident difficulty, muscles seizing and shivering from the cold. Riley helped him lean back against the brick wall behind him despite his hisses of protest. His head lolled against the brick, eyes shut tight as if trying to fight off a particularly unpleasant dizzy spell. Jason noticed his bangs were the colour of wet sand. Then he dropped his head, his hood obscuring his face. Jason could only see his broken nose and the blood dripping from his chin, diluted by the rain.

"Why? What do you care?" the assassin croaked condescendingly, voice raspy from his coughing. "Wouldn't having one less Cobra around make the streets a little safer? I bet Ponyboy here would love it if he didn't have to run messages without Cobras breathing down his neck!" He glared up at Jason when he said it, and Jason balled his fists, averting his gaze.

Riley grit her teeth, frustration raising insults to the back of her throat. "Do you want help or not?" she asked in a measured voice, trying not to let her irritation leak through.

"Stop trying to play heroine and leave me to die like you're supposed to!" the Cobra spat back.

"Like I'm supposed to." Riley echoed mordantly, wiping the mud from her skinny jeans as she stood. "If you _really_ think you're only worth the stuff you carry, or the number of people you kill, then fine. I was going to offer you a warm, dry, safe place to stay, but I guess your generosity won't let you," the venom dripped from her voice like the rain cascading off the fire escape as she turned and let Jason gladly lead the way out of the alley.

When Riley and Jason reached the mouth of the alley, they suddenly heard the Cobra call out, "W-wait!"

Jason audibly groaned as Riley spun on her heel and eagerly scampered through the mud back to the assassin.

"Do you really mean it? Giving me a place to sleep?" the Cobra asked, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. He was still visibly shivering, more so now. Jason crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to prevent the chill of the rain from seeping any further into his skin.

Riley nodded, and the ghost of a tiny smile quirked the edges of the assassin's pale lips upward. "I guess…that'd be nice," the Cobra mumbled, almost timid.

"Where, pray tell, is this warm, dry place where he can sleep?" Jason drawled as Riley supported the Cobra to help him stand. She grunted as she fell on one knee under his weight.

"I have an extra bed in my dorm room," Riley simply answered, smirking as Jason's jaw fell open. "Help me with him, will you?" she requested as she fell a second time trying to help the Cobra stand.

Jason glanced down at her, and his eyes flicked to the assassin's sword, which had previously been sunk in the mud. The hand guard was shaped like a dragon, glinting a dull gold in the rain.

The church flashed across Jason's mind's eye. Fear spiked up his spine and he fervently shook his head, backing up until he hit the remnants of an old, caved-in shed behind him. "No. No way, we are _not _helping him. This guy tried to kill me earlier this week, and he killed Picasso!" he protested, eyes wide with fear.

"Who cares about Picasso? You're not dead, are you?" Riley shot back. "Jason, that's the only place where he'll be able to recover properly. It's warm, dry, safe, and clean. You can't ask for anything better than a proper bed!"

The Cobra closed his eyes for a moment, that almost-smile flickering across his lips again as if he were fantasizing about what sleeping in a real bed might feel like.

Jason shook his head again. "Riley, think about what you're doing. He's not a stray cat, he's a bloodthirsty assassin!" he was on the verge of shouting. "You'll have a freaking massacre on your hands! I'm not going to help him kill my friends!" Jason gestured wildly, trying to make her understand.

"Does he look like he's in any condition to massacre anyone?" Riley jerked a thumb at the Cobra. "Jason, stop being irrational and help me with him!"

Jason worked his jaw, pushing a hand through his sopping wet hair. Then he seemed to make up his mind, crouching in front of the assassin. The Cobra regarded him warily, as if he were half-expected Jason to punch him.

"This is gonna cost you, Cobra. If _one _person in that school," Jason held up his index finger, "gets so much as a scratch because of you, we're throwing you to the soldiers."

The Cobra nodded. "Anything else?" he growled.

Jason thought for a moment. "I want immunity from the Cobras for my family. The Carmichaels. And the Marshalls," he added, glancing at Riley.

The assassin twitched his upper lip in distaste at the last request, but he nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Done."

"I can't believe I'm doing this…" Jason moaned as he hoisted the Cobra's free arm around his shoulders, getting him to his feet with Riley. After a few stumbles, the injured assassin managed to limp at a relatively decent pace.

After a few minutes of walking, Riley queried, "So what's your name?" as if making polite conversation were nothing out of the ordinary while they avoided scope lights from soldiers, sticking to alleys.

The Cobra scoffed, "You don't need to know my name."

"Sure we do. We need to call you something while we take care of you," Riley smiled up at him. Jason noted that she just barely reached his shoulder.

The Cobra let out an annoyed sigh, rolling his eyes. He stayed stubbornly silent, but when Riley playfully nudged him with her elbow, he nearly doubled over, swearing under his breath.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," Riley quickly apologized.

"I'm fine…" the assassin coughed, resuming his hobble again. He glanced down at Riley, sighing lightly at her hopeful expression. "Name's Roach," the Cobra answered in an irritated drone.

Riley's nose wrinkled at the strange name, and Roach smirked amusedly, falling silent as they picked their way across yet another back alley, while the white beam of a soldier's scope light swept across the street on the other side of the building. They continued like that until they reached Van Vorst Park, just a block from Riley's dorm.

The dense, overgrown foliage of the park was especially useful for hiding from soldiers, and they rarely patrolled the park, anyway. Roach collapsed by a rusted, corroded set of monkey bars in what used to be a children's playground. The only evidence that it was once painted were the tiny flecks of blue peeling off the metal. A few tarps were tied to the banister of a large, dilapidated, red-roofed gazeebo on the other side of the park, and Jason caught the corner of one flapping down as if someone had ducked their head inside. He hoped Roach still elicited enough caution and fear from the park's squatters in his state to ward off any potential muggers.

Roach's chest heaved as he rested his head against the rungs of the monkey bars, and then he bent over as if to vomit. He gagged, but nothing came out of his mouth. Riley drew her eyebrows together, kneeling in front of Roach as he straightened up, wiping blood and spit from his mouth.

"When was the last time you ate something?" Riley queried, tilting her head to one side. Jason wandered off a few feet away, alert for soldiers and muggers as he hugged himself for warmth.

Roach gave Riley another smirk, as if her concern amused him. "I'll answer that question when I can think straight," he said.

The edges of Riley's lips tugged down in a frown, and she lifted the back of her hand to Roach's forehead. Her frown deepened as she retracted it. "No wonder, you have a nasty fever," she concluded, her tone sympathetic again.

"Why are you doing this?" Roach questioned with his usual irritation.

Riley lifted a shoulder. She honestly didn't know herself what drove her to even be within fifty feet of a Cobra. It was more trouble for her, and she was putting herself in danger by helping him. Not only that, she didn't have much to gain from helping him. "I dunno, just seems like the right thing to do," she answered after a short pause.

"Gimme a break…" Roach rolled his eyes.

"Are you two done chatting? We still have floor patrols inside the school to get past," Jason reminded them, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep his legs from going numb.

Roach nodded, letting Riley and Jason hoist him to his feet again. Once on his feet he swayed dangerously, almost falling back against the monkey bars.

"Take it easy, c'mon," Riley encouraged, and Roach clenched his jaw, collecting himself as he limped forward. It was more difficult to hide from soldiers now that they had fewer alleys near the school to hide in. Jason spotted two soldiers standing guard at the main doors to the school, sheltered by the rain under the awning above the doors. They casually leaned against the brick behind them, the orange glow of cigarettes winking on and off around their lips each time they took a drag. The scope lights of soldiers along the roof of the building next to Roach, Riley, and Jason swept back and forth in a steady rhythm, like the lazy pendulum of a grandfather clock.

"What's the plan now, Riley?" Jason queried, intently watching the soldiers by the school doors.

Riley bit her lip, nervously eyeing the scope light cutting a path of light through the darkness. "It looks like we'll have to make a break for it," she said. The door to the fire escape of the dormitory by the school was so tantalizingly close, they just had to cross the street. Soldiers still patrolled the odd floor during the night, but they were much easier to deal with than the soldier on the roof and those by the school doors.

Jason glanced up at Roach, and though he couldn't see his eyes, he knew he was analyzing the soldiers' movements. Roach then switched his gaze to the splintered pavement of the alley they were hiding in, scanning the trash lining the brick walls.

"Pick up that bottle," Roach requested, motioning his head to a cracked, brown beer bottle lying on the ground.

"Why?" Riley cocked her head. Roach glared at her impatiently, and she obliged with a huff. Once she had the bottle in her hand, Roach turned his attention to the soldiers standing guard again.

"Throw it at the window of that old car, and then run," Roach jutted his chin out at an old, rusted van parked on the other side of the street.

Riley glanced from the bottle to the car, judging the distance. She nodded, drew her arm back like she was throwing a football, and tossed the bottle at the dilapidated car. The bottle flew in a smooth arc, but shattered next to the car's tire. The entrance soldiers' scope lights snapped to where the bottle landed with a cry of alarm, and they were suddenly at attention, rifles hoisted as they cautiously stepped toward the van.

"Go, go!" Roach ordered urgently, and broke into a sprint. A soldier's scope light swung in their direction, followed by a spatter of bullets. Jason flung himself at the door's handle, throwing all his weight against the metal. The hinges groaned in protest, refusing to budge. The soldiers' shouts were growing louder. A beam of light yawned at the alley's mouth. Riley braced her shoulder against the door, her heels sinking in the slick mud. It finally swung open, and all three of them piled inside the narrow stairwell.

Jason snapped the deadbolt in place, and put his ear against the door. Riley and Roach held their breath. After a few minutes, the soldiers' confused shouts faded into silence, and the only sound was the rain pattering against the metal. Jason gave the all-clear. They all let out relieved breaths, smiling at each other in the pitch-black stairwell.

"Holy crap, I can't believe that actually worked!" Riley panted, wiping the sweat and water from her face.

Roach gave a weak moan, swaying again. Riley and Jason carefully deposited him on the bottom step of the cracked concrete staircase. Jason sighed, glancing up at the black abyss above them, punctuated by a square of light for each floor. Roach curled up against the rusted iron handrail as another coughing fit wracked his body.

Riley took a seat beside Roach, rubbing her thumb over the back of his gloved hand. He cracked an eye open, throwing her a suspicious glance. "Don't worry, we're almost there. I live on the third floor," she smiled encouragingly, and Roach lolled his head against the railing with another moan, too tired to verbalize a complaint.

Jason held up a hand to wait once they reached the third floor landing, and Roach gladly leaned against the wall, panting. Jason poked his head out into the hallway, cringing as the ancient door hinges groaned loudly in the silence. The empty hall extended in both directions, and no footsteps signalled the approach of a soldier. Jason waved Riley and Roach on as he held the door open, and then shut it as quietly as he could.

"Jay, go get first-aid stuff from the nurse's office, will you?" Riley requested as they reached the door to her room.

"It's locked at night, you know," Jason reminded her.

Riley pursed her lips, and then nodded in agreement. "Crap, yeah…didn't think of that…"

Roach slipped his hand into the breast pocket inside his jacket, producing a small ring of four keys. He plopped them with a clink in Jason's hand. "One of those is a skeleton key, opens all the doors in the school and the dorm," he explained at Jason's confused expression.

"Where'd you get them?" Jason wrinkled his brow.

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Roach sighed impatiently, and Jason shivered, pocketed the keys, and slipped off down the hall to the nurse's office. He rummaged around through the various cupboards in the dark exam room, gathering a metal bowl, a bottle of saline solution, gauze, clean rags, and antiseptic. He stuffed a packet of sutures in his back pocket just in case.

When he slipped into Riley's room, she was helping Roach out of his jacket. It was caked in mud on one side, leaving a trail of splotches across the hardwood floor. Roach's t-shirt underneath could pass for white-gone-yellow rags, riddled with tears, holes, and streaked with filth. The back was completely covered in blood, most of it dried, but some of it fresh. They were silhouetted against the desk lamp's warm glow, and it was as if they were the only two people in the world, focused only on each other. Jason leaned against the doorframe, an odd feeling settling in his stomach like he was interrupting an intimate moment, which was absurd because Riley and Roach were complete strangers.

He watched silently as Riley carefully peeled the shirt away from Roach's back, using as light a touch as possible. Roach watched her warily over his shoulder, his jaw tightening as if he was trying to suppress winces, or maybe insults. His eyes locked with Riley's as she stepped in front of him, flashing a clear warning as her fingers hovering at the frayed hem of his shirt. Jason tensed, eyes riveted on Roach's hands.

"Are you going to let me take your shirt off?" Riley quietly asked him, her tone firm, but gentle.

Roach said nothing, but his harsh glare softened. He exhaled softly through his nose. Taking that as a confirmation, Riley slipped her hands under the fabric, slowly hiking the shirt up. Roach's muscles seized and he audibly sucked in a breath, but he didn't push her hands away.

Smirking, Riley tilted her head to one side. "What? Are my hands cold?" she teased playfully.

"No. Warm," Roach mumbled as Riley tossed the shirt over her desk chair. He turned to pull his boots off.

Riley clapped a hand to her mouth and gasped.

Four long gashes spread like bloody fingers across Roach's back. They were ringed with a sickly yellow puss that mixed with the fresh blood oozing from the cuts, and Jason resisted the urge to gag. The swollen, inflamed skin around the gashes stretched as Roach breathed, coloured an angry shade of red.

"Somebody take a pitchfork to your back?" Jason attempted to joke, but Roach just gave an irritated snort as Riley threw him a disapproving look.

"Bullwhip, actually," Roach dryly corrected him as he lay down on the bed. Riley and Jason winced at the mental image.

Riley took a rag from the small pile on the desk, dipped it in the bowl of the saline solution, and dabbed the first gash on Roach's upper back. A mixture of puss and blood came away, and Roach hissed in pain, digging his dirty fingernails into the mattress. Riley kept working on the wound, ignoring his muttered obscenities as his muscles tightened, to the point where they began to shake from the strain.

"Need a minute?" Riley guessed, her tone gentle. Roach snorted condescendingly at the idea, but the silent plead in his eyes told the opposite. She smirked, handing him a protein bar that she had sneaked the previous day at breakfast. He appreciatively nibbled on it, the fleeting vulnerability gone.

Jason relaxed enough to recline on Riley's bed, kicking his shoes off. Roach eventually closed his eyes and fell silent, giving the occasional twitch as Riley moved on to the antiseptic solution. Every now and again, Roach's ragged breathing would be interrupted by coughing, or Riley would bring a chipped mug of water to his pale lips. She worked with a gentle tenderness, dabbing the sweat from Roach's forehead or rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. Something pricked the back of Jason's mind, and a tiny voice hissed that Roach didn't deserve Riley's compassion, he didn't deserve her gentle touch; what he deserved was to be freezing out there in that alley.

_Why can't Riley see how dangerous this is? _Jason worried. _Somebody's gonna find out and get us expelled, or someone's gonna end up dead, and it won't be Roach. _


End file.
